Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixty-Three: First Sight

Leaving the recesses of the opulent hotel, Clint felt replenished; his mind rung clear as a bell, his senses were lucid, and his body felt lighter than air. He'd had the most restful night of his life, which he suspected owed to the mint condition of the hotel suite. Landing on the duvet, he thought the marshmallow mattress, dense duvets and puffy pillows would swallow him up; it made a change to the starchy covers at S.H.I.E.L.D., or the threadbare and mothbitten ones back in Iowa. Perks of the job, Clint smiled to himself as he stalked down the sludge-soaked pavement, squeezing between the morning bustle.

"How are you feeling today, Barton?" Coulson's voice fuzzed in his ear, like an irritating wasp.

"Relaxed until you spoke," he grumbled, wincing at the quality of the sound. "What've you got for me today, M?" Clint quipped.

He heard something that resembled a chuckle in his ear, signal interference distorting it. "We have a lead on Miss Romanoff," Coulson reported. "I'm going to need you to get yourself over to the Obuda side of the river, and then follow the directions on your PDA to find a vantage point; assuming you have your weaponry?"

Clint's feet skidded to a halt in the slush. "Yeah, totally..." He about-turned to make back for the hotel, splashing through puddles of pollution-stained snow-sludge, 

"Funny, the tracker for your earpiece says you're headed back for the hotel," Coulson said deadpan.

"Not a word of this to anyone," Clint replied sharply. "Especially not to Bobbi." He stomped back through the foyer with his snow-damp boots, trudging damp into the carpet, the gold chandelier - spilling diamonds above his head and refracting rainbows onto the wall - swayed with the gusts overhead as the doors open and shut.

"She already knows you're a jackass, Clint, you've got nothing to lose," Coulson's voice mocked him. "But I have everything to gain with a hilarious story over breakfast."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm going to have to request you shut the hell up," Clint muttered, aware of other residents looking at him funny for talking to himself.

"Request denied."

~

"Glad to see you're on the ball, Barton," Coulson teased, a collection of a duffle bag and a cup of coffee later - three quarters empty just to wake him up, his daily shot of caffeine.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint grumbled, setting up his snow-camouflaged rifle; removing each mechanical part and slotting it together with satisfying clicks and locks; the actions had become muscle memory and his hands moved fluently.

Clint's dwindling coffee cup was resting in the compacted snow, the fluffy and crisp coating around it melting, wisps of roasted-coffee bean scented steam twirling into the icy air. The tantalizing smell was more than a distraction, as was the beckon of the hospitable coffee shop with it's beige walls and quaint tables.

Clint unfolded the sniper stand and stabbed it into the snow before balancing the barrel on the rest. Everything was in order.

"Got me any news on the proximity of Romanoff?" Clint asked, rubbing his hands together, friction thawing the frigid frost out of his fingertips; the leather gloves were no barrier to the hostile conditions, and his hands felt confined to the cold trapped in the gloves. He tugged the baggy sleeves of his thermal coat over his hands, and tucked his neck down to his chest until the collar shielded him from the chilling wind. "I'm gonna get a frostbite at this rate..."